


The Opposite of Chill

by velvetglove



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Age of Consent, First Kiss, First Time, Grand Prix Final, M/M, POV Otabek Altin, Post-WTTM, Welcome to the Madness (Yuri!!! on Ice), Worlds, barcelona, helsinki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 07:02:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11099358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetglove/pseuds/velvetglove
Summary: After helping Yuri with his Welcome to the Madness exhibition skate, Beka manages to behave like a responsible adult while also teaching Yuri to kiss. But he'll have a lot more to teach him at Worlds.





	The Opposite of Chill

This is not where Beka expected to be tonight.

Yura straddles Beka’s hips, fully-clothed, grinding his ass against Beka’s stiff cock, breathing in little whimpers, almost frantic, and Beka has to wonder if this is for real, or if it’s just the lingering effects of their unexpectedly sexy exhibition improv.

 _Welcome to the Madness._ What a rush! It had come off perfectly. The plan had been for Beka to pull Yura’s gloves off with one hand and then the other, but when Yura had held his gloved hand up before Beka’s mouth, Beka had known what to do, had known exactly what Yura wanted. In the moment, it had felt as daring as a high-speed motorcycle ride, driving just on the edge of control, knowing that if the least thing went wrong he’d be dead. It had felt dangerous like that. Thrilling.

They’re in Yura’s room, where his clothes are strewn all across the bedspread and the floor, every kind of cat print represented. When he got the door unlocked, Yura had backed Beka up to the bed and leapt on him, knocking him down and climbing on top. Everything that’s happened with Yura in Barcelona has been surprising, but none of it has been unwelcome.

The curtains are open and moonlight floods the room in a wash of silver. The cone of light from the bedside lamp is golden and warm.

All eyes had been on them, starkly spotlit on the ice, and Yura’s gloved finger in Beka’s mouth tasted of copper and salt, leather and living skin. Beka’s tongue had curled around Yura’s fingertip as he’d bitten down and ripped Yura’s glove off with a jerk of his chin, a wild animal snatching prey.

The arena crowd had gone crazy and Beka had felt confident the people were surprised, shocked, and even if they hadn’t liked what they’d seen, they’d remember Yura and him doing it. Yura had gotten the reaction he’d wanted. His routine might even have surpassed Victor and Yuuri’s duet in the minds of the fans.

After the skate, Yura changed into his street clothes and they dropped their things at the hotel. Yura begged _Let’s go, just go_ , and tugged on his arm, so they skipped the banquet, and Yura ignored the messages pinging on his phone, whooping with joy on the back of Beka’s rented bike as they cruised through Barcelona, everything glittering and hyperreal.

Long after the banquet had ended, they parked the bike in the hotel garage. Yura had said _Come to my room_ , and taken his hand, and Beka’s mind had gone blank, unwilling to speculate about Yura’s intentions.

Tearing clothes off with teeth. During their tour of the city, Beka had wondered whether it meant anything that Yura had wanted to do it with _him_.

Now he has his answer.

Yura’s using his hands, not his teeth. Yura yanks and tugs, and Beka helps, and Beka’s jacket, fleece and gloves are jettisoned from the bed. Yura flings off his jacket and hoodie, the zipper of the airborne hoodie making a loose metallic snap when it smacks against the veneer of the TV armoire. They’re not saying anything, and they’re both breathing like they can’t get enough air, rapid and harsh and desperate.

Yura’s moving so fast and Beka doesn’t want what’s happening to be a blur; Beka catches Yura’s wrists and stills them, pulls Yura’s hands out from beneath his shirt. He interlaces their fingers and now Yura’s hands are captive.

“Slow down,” he says gently, drawing their clasped hands up by his shoulders. The rest of Yura follows, easing down, their faces close together.

Yura is shivering with tension, sullen and surly. “What if I don’t _want_ to slow down?”

“Then you’ll have to find someone else to play your game with,” Beka says, sounding calmer than he feels.

Yura squirms on top of Beka’s dick, frustrated and more than a little pissed. “I want to play with _you_ , asshole. You have to kiss me at least!”

The way Yura’s wiggling around is making Beka seriously hard, hard enough to pound nails. It would be a lot of fun to be naked on top of writhing Yura, trying to hold him still.

“I’ll kiss you.” Beka can agree to this. He wants to.

Before Beka can take the lead, Yura dives at him hard and fast, and Beka would probably have a broken nose if Yura’s aim had been just a millimeter or two off. It’s a really terrible kiss: lips crushed against clashing teeth, overwhelming whiplash tongue, and the faintest tang of blood. Obviously Yura hasn’t done this before.

Fierce. He’s so _fierce_.

Beka lets go Yura’s hands, which immediately burrow back beneath Beka’s clothes, his fingers hot against Beka’s ribs.

Beka does his best to show how he wants to be kissed by doing those exact things with his own mouth, but he also puts his hands in Yura’s hair and eases him off, dials him back, changes the angle of approach. Yura takes the hints and relaxes, just a little, his lips opening to Beka’s with liquid heat, his tongue twining around Beka’s own. Yura shudders and sighs into Beka’s mouth.

It feels incredible like this, with Yura just a little softer. Yura’s hungry mouth tastes good, tastes human, like milk and metal, and he’s already figuring out what to do with his tongue. Chills wash over Beka’s skin and his cock throbs as Yura whimpers and ruts against him, a plaintive edge to his cries like he’s begging Beka for something that would make him so, so happy.

Beka runs a hand down Yura’s back. He hesitates a moment before cupping Yura’s ass, which is firm and round, a really nice skater’s ass. It fits Beka’s hand like buttock and palm were made to go together, and Yura gasps and arches against Beka as Beka gives him an experimental squeeze. They’re pressed together the length of their bodies, and Beka can feel how hard Yura is, how wound up.

Yura rears up and looks down at Beka, flushed and panting with an open mouth as he sits up astride Beka’s hips. Beka can see his hard cock angled behind the fly of his jeans. He breathlessly announces, “We should have sex!”

Beka can’t help it: he laughs. He’d already known this boy had no chill, but this…this is ignition, a conflagration, the flame-throwing opposite of chill.

Yura is hurt by his amusement and sharply turns his head to hide his reddening face. “Fuck you! Fine, I don’t want to have sex with you anyway!”

“Yura…” Laughing was kind of a dick move, and Beka feels bad. “Hey, I’m sorry.” Beka puts his hands on Yura’s hips, touches him with soothing strokes, and Yura lets himself be petted. “It’s just—if we had sex now, we’d be skipping too many steps.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Yura’s still angry, but he’s listening.

“We’ve really only been friends a few days. I like to know people better before I go to bed with them.” Well, sometimes. Not usually. But this is different.

Yura rolls his eyes. “Oh. My. God. It’s _just_ sex!”

“Which you haven’t had before, right? I can almost guarantee it’s going to be a bigger deal than you think.”

Sex isn’t always a big deal for Beka, but sex with Yura would be. He has history with Yura, even if Yura doesn’t really remember or understand it.

“You’re being so _responsible_ and _cautious_.” Yura hurls the words as if they’re insults. “You’re being a total buzzkill.”

Hissing and spitting, a fierce ice tiger kitten.

Beka laughs. “You complain a lot. Come here.” He pulls Yura down for a kiss that he orchestrates, and it goes much more smoothly than Yura’s kamikaze effort, and it’s amazing. Yura is a fast learner.

Beka takes Yura in his arms and rolls them over, and now he’s lying between Yura’s long legs with Yura looking up at him, wonder and trust and outsized desire playing across his handsome little face. Beka really wants to see what Yura looks like when he comes.

But he isn’t going to rush into this. He wants to give this friendship (and its benefits) a real chance.

Five years ago, Yura was the best young skater Beka had ever seen, already better as a Novice than most of the Juniors. Beka had admired him and aspired to someday be good enough to challenge him on the ice. He’d also noted that Yura was one of the prettiest boys he’d ever seen, but all that meant then was that Yura had an additional advantage in a sport that rewarded beauty.

He’s watched Yura skate these past five years and has admired him as an athlete. Obviously Yura is still beautiful, but it was never Beka’s thought to make Yura into a conquest. He’d had no plans to seduce him. He’d never imagined he’d be making out with Yura in his hotel room after playing a sex game on the ice in front of an arena full of people.

He really came to Barcelona just wanting to make friends with the boy whose skating he likes the most.

A boy who, in some ways, he looks up to. But just some ways. A very few.

To his surprise, Yura is eager—almost desperate—for his friendship. Yura wants him as confidant, partner in crime, skate buddy, and now sex friend. It’s a lot for one person to take on. It’s kind of overwhelming.

They’re at different places. Beka has wanted this friendship a long time, and he’s wanted it because he’d hoped he could learn from Yura and grow as a skater. Yura hasn’t been thinking of Beka for the last five years; Yura hasn’t even been thinking of Beka for the last five days. Yura thinks Beka’s a sexy badass and wants Beka to help him grow up fast.

Beka wants to be careful with Yura because he’s inexperienced in every way, but realistically, if anyone’s getting hurt, it’s probably himself.

Beka slides a hand beneath the hem of Yura’s t-shirt, and Yura’s skin is so soft it feels like it’ll melt under the heat of his fingertips. Yura’s nipple tightens at Beka’s touch and he gasps against Beka’s lips. Wanting more skin on downy skin, Beka sits back on his heels and pulls his shirt off, tossing it on the carpet. Yura watches him do it, his eyes going wide, and then he struggles out of his own shirt, getting in his own way in his rush to be bare-chested.

Beka sits on the side of the bed and bends over to take off his shoes and Yura hurries to do the same. Beka moves to lean against the headboard, a pillow behind his back, and Yura frowns at his half-clothed body. Yura’s hands are at his own belt buckle, uncertain but poised to act.

“What about your jeans?”

Beka smiles and shakes his head. “I’m keeping them on.” He shifts his hips side to side, getting comfortable, and holds his arms open. “Come up here with me.”

Yura kneels up on the bed, walks the short distance to Beka on his knees, straddles his lap, and sits down on his thighs with a defiant glare, jaw set with determination. Beka smiles at him, wanting it to be clear they’re not fighting, they’re not arguing: they’re on the same side. He reaches to tuck Yura’s hair behind his ear, his fingertips trailing down the length of his neck and tracing the contour of his collarbone. His other hand rests at Yura’s waist, and muscles jump beneath his palm as he pets Yura’s neck and shoulder.

Yura whimpers and lays his hands flat against Beka’s chest, sliding over his skin. He watches his own hands as if he can’t believe he’s touching another person, and his touch is reverent and careful. He seems awestruck, which is really fucking flattering.

If this isn’t a false start, if Beka’s really going to be the one to give Yura his first times, then he wants them to be great, and he’ll do what he can to be sure Yura is ready for them. And in his experienced opinion, Yura is not ready.

But they can take things a little further. With a supportive hand between Yura’s shoulder blades, Beka ducks down and licks one of Yura’s nipples. Yura lets out a startled _ha!_ and his body thrums with fresh tension. He fists one hand in Beka’s hair, the fingers of the other digging into Beka’s shoulder as he arches his back, insistently offering his nipple for Beka’s mouth. He lets out soft cries that sound like a caution, a warning, and squirms on Beka’s lap.

They’ve talked a lot these last few days, and Beka knows that Yura never hesitates to take on a challenge. He has a habit of flinging himself blindly at new experiences, large or small, and it seems to always pay off. He flew solo halfway around the world—and how he managed that is still something of a mystery—and Beka found him here in Barcelona running through the alleys of a city he knows nothing about. Yura approaches every new skating challenge at full speed, full strength, and he’s arguably the best male figure skater in the world. This fearless, impulsive angle of attack has worked well for him so far.

Yura might be able to do the same with sex and have it turn out pleasurable and fulfilling, but Beka is concerned about broken hearts. He’s not sure whose.

Is Yura someone who can take another person’s feeling seriously? Beka tries to avoid thinking it, but the traitorous thought intrudes and insists on being considered. Fine. He’ll think it: Yura might be immature. Just a little.

If he’s really Yura’s only friend, then he needs to be extra-careful. He wants to make sure he’ll be able to stay Yura’s friend no matter what. Honestly though, he’s protecting himself. It’s such a huge compliment that someone he idolizes (sort of) wants him, and it took literally moments for his athletic respect for Yura to morph into powerful, purposeful lust (which, obviously, had been there all along). They could have a great time, he’d make sure of it, but if he lets something happen with Yura and Yura then loses interest, it would be demoralizing at best. It might affect his skating. It might really fuck it up.

Beka knows sex with Yura would be a lot of fun. Maybe the most fun. But for now it’s going to have to be enough to teach Yura to kiss.

~~~

His resolve wavers almost immediately.

Yura has an arm around Beka’s neck, the fingers of his other hand hooked behind the button of Beka’s jeans, and they’re kissing, wet and slick and urgent, and Beka’s whole body is throbbing, a thick pulse beating in the head of his cock. He’s practically gushing precome at the touch of Yura’s knuckles low on his belly, just barely stirring the hairs there. His cock is sticking up at an angle, almost touching Yura’s fingers, and he doesn’t know whether he wants Yura to take hold of it or not.

This is not the time to be wondering if he could get arrested for an underage hand job in Spain; he should have anticipated the need for the answer to this question, and he should have figured it out beforehand because, _fuck_ , he wants to come, and he wants to make Yura come, and they’re only two years and a few months apart, so in a fair and reasonable world doing whatever they want would definitely be all right.

Fuck.

Sometimes he hates being a decent person. Sometimes he wants to be a piece of shit who’ll take advantage of a horny 15-year-old.

Beka extracts Yura’s hand from his jeans and Yura responds with an incensed, offended groan of protest, angry at being cheated out of the dick he thought would be his prize. Beka pulls Yura close, their chests pressed together, and rubs Yura’s back. Beka can feel Yura’s heartbeat, fast and frantic like a little animal running for its life.

“Okay,” Beka says. “Okay now.” Soothing strokes, calming touch.

Yura squirms in his embrace, pushing at his shoulders to make distance. He rears back in Beka’s arms so he can look him in the eye.

“What?” Yura demands. “Wait—what? Are we _stopping?_ ” He’s incredulous. He often is.

“I need to stop now,” Beka explains, stating it plainly. “I’m too excited.”

“So? Let’s just—do it! Do whatever! I really want to.”

“Not this time.” Beka shifts a little beneath Yura’s ass, sitting up straighter and scooting back. Dissolving some of their closeness.

“Why? Is it because I’m 15? I’m almost 16! Besides, 15-year-olds have sex all the time! Mila did, Victor did, even Georgi—”

“Do they really want you telling everyone when they started having sex?”

Beka also had sex at 15, but he’s not telling Yura that.

“No one _cares!_ ” Yura insists. “Everyone likes you. They’ll be _happy_ I’m having sex with you.”

Beka laughs. “I think you’re overstating it.” Beka scoots a little more out from under Yura. “We should put our shirts back on.”

“Or we could finish getting undressed.”

“No.” Beka slides out from beneath Yura, tipping him halfway over in the process, and begins to look for his shirt.

“I’ve seen you naked before,” Yura points out. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Then why do you need me to get undressed now?”

Yura has no answer.

“Locker-room-naked isn’t the same as sex-naked. You know that.” Beka finds his shirt and pulls it on, smoothing it over his torso.

“How is it different?” Yura apparently wants to argue for the sake of arguing.

Beka gives Yura some dubious side-eye. “Come on. I’ve seen you naked in the locker room. I know how muscular you are—”

“I’m _ripped_ ,” Yura insists.

“I _know_ that. I know you have a little pink birthmark on your left hip. I know you don’t give a fuck and will stand around forever with your dick out while you’re on your phone checking messages. That’s locker-room-naked. But I haven’t seen you with your legs spread, ready for me. I haven’t seen you touching your own skin to turn yourself on. I haven’t seen you lying back with your cock hard, with a little puddle of precome on your belly. That’s sex-naked.” Beka sees Yura’s shirt, scoops it up and tosses it to him.

The shirt hits Yura in the chest. His face is flushed. “Oh.”

And since Yura started this, Beka pushes. “Has anyone seen your cock when it’s hard?”

Yura scoffs at this. “No! Of course not!”

“I could be the first then.” Beka does like this idea. Just not today.

“I’ll show you now!” Yura is yanking at his belt, his movements jerky and clumsy in his rush.

Beka firmly stays Yura’s hands with his own. “No, let’s wait on that.”

“ _Why?_ ” Yura seems equal parts enraged and anguished. “Do you even _want_ to fuck me? If you don’t like me, just say so!”

“Of course I like you. Of course I want to fuck you.” He stays seated on the bed, stays close to Yura.

“Are you sure?” Yura’s eyes narrow as he scrutinizes Beka’s face, looking for the lie.

“I’m sure. Listen, we’ve got three months before Worlds, and we’ll get to know each other in the meantime, and when we’re there…” He doesn’t want to make any promises, but three months of friendship will go a long way toward making sex seem like a good idea. And by Worlds Yura will have turned 16 and that’ll be one less thing to worry about.

“When we see each other there, we’ll fuck.”

“We’ll think about it,” Beka says. There’s more to sex than it just being legal though, and he’s not sure Yura’s ready for sex. He needs convincing.

Yura grabs Beka’s arm and looks him in the eyes, his mouth resolute. “We _will_. We’ll fuck.”

“I want to know you better,” Beka says again, standing firm. “If we get to know each other—”

“Why wouldn’t we do that?” Yura demands. It’s clear Yura thinks not getting to know each other would be fucking stupid.

Beka shrugs. “Things change. We could lose interest, maybe.” He really means that Yura could lose interest. Yura’s an unpredictable force, propulsive and impulsive. Beka suspects Yura has a short attention span for anything other than skating, and it isn’t clear to Beka whether sex with him would be considered skating-related or not.

“We could _lose interest?_ ” Yura’s offended. He’s pissed. He punches Beka’s arm, not playfully. “We’re _friends_. Why would I lose interest in you? Are you going to lose interest in me?” Yura obviously thinks losing interest in him would be fucking stupid too, and he’s not wrong.

“No,” Beka assures him. “I’m not going to lose interest.” He’s spent five years waiting and preparing to have the chance to become Yura’s friend. He hadn’t anticipated that the friendship would take on these extra dimensions, but he’s definitely happy about it.

“I won’t lose interest either! I’ll want to talk to you _all the time_ ,” Yura insists. “I’ll want to tell you _everything_.” Yura’s passionate commitment to their friendship is impressive, though possibly exaggerated.

“We’ll talk a lot,” Beka agrees. “Messages, FaceTime, Skype, whatever.” He touches Yura’s face, caresses his cheek, and Yura leans into the pressure with a little sigh. Yura’s skin is so smooth Beka wonders if he even shaves at all, but thinks better of asking, knowing Yura would be insulted and take it as a slight against his manhood.

By some unspoken mutual agreement, they tip over sideways onto the bed and touch each other, languorous, affectionate petting, their expressions serious. Yura suddenly rolls down onto his back and clears his throat, not looking at Beka.

“So…are you my boyfriend now? If you’re not, that’s cool, I just…” Yura turns away, and the little of his face that Beka can see is red.

It seems like they’re getting ahead of themselves, but, “I could be. I won’t say no.”

Yura turns back to face him, still blushing, with a big smile. “Can I tell people you’re my boyfriend?”

Beka considers this and shrugs, smiling back. “Yeah, if you want.” He’s flattered Yura wants to claim him.

“Have you had a boyfriend before?”

How to answer this…?

“I’ve had girlfriends. I’ve had sex with men before.”

Yura gives him a sharp look, noting the difference. “I haven’t had a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend.” He thinks for a moment. “Could you tell I’d never kissed anyone before?”

Beka gives what he thinks is a diplomatic answer. “I wondered…”

“I’m going to get good at it,” Yura insists. It’s a promise and a challenge.

“You already did,” Beka tells him, and it’s true.

Pleased, Yura ducks his head and fits himself beneath Beka’s chin, clinging to his shoulders. He’s really cute. It’s fucking adorable how eager he is to have a boyfriend, to have someone. He’s not at all how Beka had imagined. He’s much more lovable.

It’s so late, so very late. Is the sky getting lighter? It’s maybe better not to know. He has an early flight and he’s not even packed.

He presses a kiss to Yura’s hairline.

“I’m going to my own room, all right? We’re not fucking, not tonight. But if you want something for your spank bank, I can tell you what it’s going to be like at Worlds.”

Yura snorts, amused and feigning a little disdain, but he says, “Yeah, tell me.”

“Okay. Well. When you get to the hotel, I’ll meet you in the lobby and take you upstairs to your room. I’ll put the do-not-disturb sign on the door and push you up against the wall. I’ll remind you how I like to be kissed, and I’ll make sure you like it too. Maybe it’ll be enough to make out and grind on each other until we’re both ready to come.” He pauses a moment, breathing in Yura’s ear. “Will that be enough? Will you be satisfied if all we do is kiss?”

“Fuck, no!” Yura is adamant. He snuggles closer, his breath warm and moist against Beka’s throat.

“All right then. I’ll strip off your clothes, or maybe I should make you do it.”

“ _Make_ me?” Yura sounds as though he doubts very much that Beka could do this.

“I’ll make you _want_ to. You’ll be so fucking excited to do whatever I tell you.”

“Ha.” But Yura seems to like the idea.

“So I’ll tell you to do a sexy striptease, like burlesque-quality, some real high-end stripping, and when you’re naked, I’ll look at you from every angle and tell you to spread your legs. You want me to touch your cock, right?”

“Obviously!” Yura is scornful and rears back to glare at Beka, narrowing his eyes. “Why wouldn’t I want that?”

“I’ll touch you then. I’ll feel you grow hard in my hand. I’ll play with your cock, until you’re about to come, right at the edge, and then I’ll stop—and then I’ll do it all over again until you’re going crazy.”

“That’s just mean,” Yura complains. “Fucking sick.”

Beka laughs. “Nah, you’ll love it, I promise.” He touches Yura’s nipple through his t-shirt, teases it hard. “I’ll touch you everywhere, all the places you’ve dreamed of being touched, and then I’ll lick you every place my fingers have been, and you’ll be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Yura whimpers, his hand tightening on a fistful of Beka’s t-shirt.

“Tell me the truth: have you tasted your own come?”

Yura flushes red and admits, “Y-yes.”

“But no one else has?”.

Yura scoffs at the idea. “No one!”

“That’s good, Yura. That’s what I want to hear. It makes me happy. I’ll give you all your first times and make them amazing for you. I’ll suck your cock and lick your ass and fuck you until you’ve forgotten every word but my name.”

Yura lets out a helpless little moan.

“And then do you know what I’ll do?”

“N-no. What?”

“I’ll win the gold medal and fuck you with it hanging around my neck.”

Yura laughs and punches him. “ _I’ll_ win gold and let you wear my medal.”

That would work too.

Yura rolls up against him again and they twine themselves around each other. They fit like they were made to go together, places for all their limbs, a puzzle being solved. Beka breathes deep and nuzzles Yura’s ear; Yura smells so fucking good. It always feels amazing when things start with someone new, but this is…different. It feels big. Intense.

“Don’t leave,” Yura says. “It’s practically tomorrow anyway, so you should just stay.”

It’s so tempting. He could sleep on top of the covers spooning Yura, his nose in Yura’s messy hair. But so far he’s done a good job of seeming like a mature adult in reasonable control of his behavior, and he’s afraid that a little sleep-groping could easily result in sweaty, sticky, dirty fucking, consequences be damned, because that’s what he really wants. That’s what he’s going to be thinking about when he returns to his room to manhandle the cock that Yura would have willingly, eagerly sucked for him.

“I have to go.”

Yura seems to have expected this and doesn’t protest any more. “Leave me your jacket then.”

“My jacket?” He really likes Yura, but he’s not leaving his leather. He needs that.

“The black fleece you were wearing. With the collar. I’ll give it back to you at Worlds.”

It’s Beka’s favorite, but, “Okay. You have to give me something then.”

Yura leaps up from the bed and goes to paw through the clothes strewn across the carpet. He picks up something black and holds it up; whatever he sees makes him smile.

“Here,” he says, giving Beka a sweatshirt with a tiger’s head taking up most of the front. The tiger is wearing a red bow tie.

“I got this in Hasetsu. My whole life changed after that, so this is important. Like a souvenir.” He looks critically at the sweatshirt and then at Beka. “It might be too small for you.”

Without thinking, Beka brings it to his nose, then blushes when he sees Yura staring at him. Slightly apologetic, he says, “It smells like you.”

Yura’s face goes red and he quickly turns away, busying himself separating Beka’s black fleece from the leather jacket. He pulls it on and zips it all the way up, the high collar covering the lower half of his face.

“This smells like you too.”

“It looks good,” Beka says.

There’s a full-length mirror near the door and Yura poses in front of this, hands in pockets. “Does it look like I’m wearing my boyfriend’s jacket? I want people to know it’s yours.”

Beka laughs. “If you really want them to know, you’ll probably have to tell them.” He takes the opportunity to get up from the bed and makes small adjustments to his clothes, putting everything in order. He picks up the Hasetsu sweatshirt and then his leather jacket and stands with Yura before the mirror. They look good together. He puts his arm around Yura’s shoulders and kisses the side of his head. “I really need to go.”

“Ugh.” Yura groans and rolls his eyes, glowering up at Beka. Then he turns and flings his arms around Beka and holds tight. With his face pressed against Beka’s neck, he says, “Don’t you dare forget about me, or you’ll never get your jacket back.”

Beka drops his leather jacket and Yura’s tiger sweatshirt on the floor so he can hug him properly. “You’re not the kind of person anyone could ever forget.” And then he kisses Yura a final time, and it’s as if Yura has taken everything he’s learned this night and concentrated it into one devastating kiss that leaves them both gasping.

They are both slack-mouthed, breathing hard, staring into each other’s eyes, and there’s a moment when things could have tipped the other direction and they’d have been fucking on the floor, but instead Beka takes a half step back and offers Yura a shaky smile.

“See me out, zhanym? We’ll talk soon.”

Yura wrinkles up his nose, skeptical of the unfamiliar word. “What did you call me?”

“It’s a Kazakh thing. It means I like you.”

“Yeah?” Yura has such a beautiful smile.

“Yeah,” Beka promises, returning the smile. “I like you a lot.”

And half an hour later, when he’s coming with Yura’s sweatshirt draped over his face, he’s a little shocked to realize how much he really does like him.

Which is good, since they’re boyfriends now.

~~~

Over the next days and weeks, they find time to talk whenever they can, and they have so much to talk about. They confide in each other. They share everything. Yura sends him dozens of pictures, pictures of St. Petersburg, pictures from the rink, pictures with his cat, and in almost every one Yura is wearing his fleece jacket.

Beka’s friends are always interested in seeing new pictures, always interested in news of Yura, this person who so easily ensnared their playboy friend. There’s some bafflement— _I didn’t think you liked guys that much_ —but they’re supportive, even enthusiastic. They look at the photos and agree that Yura is pretty, or handsome, or both. They want Beka to bring him to Almaty so they can befriend him too, and Beka is only a little worried about how that might go.

The black fleece is ubiquitous in Yura’s photos, but there’s only one photo of Beka wearing the Hasetsu sweatshirt, which is ridiculously small, baring his navel, the sleeves awkwardly short. He sleeps with it though, and imagines it still smells of Yura’s skin. It probably smells more like him now. That they’ll get their clothes back smelling of each other seems romantic, though Beka is shy of saying this to Yura.

On Yura’s birthday, Yura sends a spectacular nude with the message _I know the difference between locker room naked and sex naked_ , and that leads to a long Skype session where they get sex-naked and show each other how their cocks work—more or less identically and also really well.

The weeks between Yura’s birthday and Worlds pass in a blur. There are more naked Skype sessions, a growing album of fondly-regarded dick pics on Beka’s phone, and swoony, affectionate words that fall just short of overt declarations of love. Beka’s skating is changing, his interpretation of the music more romantic, more dramatic. Coach is grudgingly pleased by this “maturity,” but reminds him he still has to work on his jumps.

When he’s at the airport, and then on the plane, he messages Yura until the last possible second. He tries and fails to get much sleep during their overnight flight because he’s too excited about seeing Yura. He’s so focused on Yura that he forgets from moment to moment that he’s actually going to Helsinki to participate in an international figure skating competition.

Coach talks to him in the car to the hotel but he’s not paying attention. He checks his bag for maybe the tenth time to make sure Yura’s birthday present (sunglasses identical to his own, wrapped in tiger paper) is still there. He checks again to make sure he remembered condoms and lube.

They’re in front of the hotel unloading luggage from the trunk of the car when he hears _hey_.

He turns and sees Yura stepping out of the hotel doors wearing his black fleece jacket, hands shoved in the pockets. Yura’s smiling wide, his cheeks pink with happy embarrassment.

Beka smiles back. “Hey.” He puts down the bag he’s holding and steps over a suitcase. As he reaches for Yura, he’s shaking.

Yura’s real, solid. Smells perfect. Kisses even better than Beka remembered, like a little hot-breathed god. They’re wrapped tight in each other’s arms when Coach taps his shoulder and tells him to carry some bags.

He gets checked in. His room is on the seventh floor.

“Where are you?” he asks Yura.

“Ninth floor.” He leans against Beka’s side. “I’ll come to your room.” He nudges Beka with his elbow. “Unless you’d rather be alone.”

Beka scoffs at this. “I want to be with you.”

Coach accompanies them to Beka’s door, then continues on down the hall. Beka drops his key card. Twice. Yura laughs and picks it up, then slots it into the lock.

Before leaving Almaty, Beka had had some idea they’d check in with the other skaters and see what was happening, see if people were making dinner plans. He’d imagined that they would relax a little. But they’re not relaxed at all.

As soon as the door shuts behind them, they’re on each other, tearing off their clothes, naked in the vestibule, and Beka goes to his knees and pushes Yura up against the wall. He puts his mouth on him and thinks _it’s starting, this is where we start_.

Yura’s hands make fists in his hair, and Yura cries out sounding vulnerable and wild, and then Beka’s mouth is full of Yura’s bitter-salty flavor. He teeters on the verge of orgasm, but he doesn’t come. He grabs his bag with the condoms and lube and takes Yura’s hand to lead him to the bed.

Yura lies down on his back and smiles, playful and wanton. “Hey, look,” he says. “I’m sex-naked.” His body is so beautiful, everything pink and white and gold.

Beka had this idea he could make their first time soft-focus perfect and give Yura a good memory. But maybe it’ll be just as good to have a memory of a boyfriend who was raw with wanting him, who couldn’t pretend or finesse anything. His heart bangs against his ribs and his hands tremble. He fumbles with the condom and swears under his breath. He’s never felt desire like he feels for Yura now. He’s fucking shook, and he’s the flame-throwing opposite of chill.

When at last he’s inside Yura, he thinks— _knows_ —that this is what he’s supposed to be doing with his life. On the ice they’ll always be competitors, but here in his bed they’re on the same side. They’re a team.

They fuck and fuck. Things he’d guessed at, things inferred, play out between them. Yura likes to be treated like something small and precious, but he also likes to be held down and pounded, on his knees, his arms bent up behind his back and a hand pressing down on the nape of his neck. Yura comes really hard, fierce and fragile, looking deep into Beka’s eyes with his heart bare, and Beka can’t hold back. He’s going to fall in love with Yura, it’s happening.

They join the rest of the skaters for dinner in the banquet room of a restaurant Victor arranged, and they come in late, with damp, messy hair and flushed cheeks, and everyone knows what they’ve been doing. And doing. It’s embarrassing, but Beka is a little proud too.

People mutter things to him, little asides. _Tamed the wildcat. Calming influence. So relaxed now. Good for each other._ Beka thinks it’s nice people care about Yura and see that Beka makes him happy, so he holds back from telling them that he’s not Yura’s keeper, hasn’t tamed him at all. Yura’s good mood is his own creation. Beka is an influence, yes, but he has no interest in breaking Yura’s feral fairy spirit.

Beka has eaten about all he’s going to eat from the buffet when the male half of the US pairs duo responds to their sexy-dirty energy and sidles over to flirt with Beka while Yura is off taking a piss. Beka listens to the guy’s spiel, politely amused, and sips his wine. But when Yura comes back, he goes after poor American Kyle like a high-octane buzzsaw, spitting and gnashing, offering to cave his head in and shaking small fists in his face. Beka half-carries Yura out of the room while he snarls and thrashes.

“I wasn’t going to make out with him or anything,” Beka says as they walk back to the hotel.

Yura scoffs at this. “I know that. You would never.”

“Then why were you so upset?”

“It was disrespectful! We’re together.” When he senses Beka doesn’t understand, he says, “Would you flirt with Katsudon? Or Victor? No, because you know they’re together.”

This is sort of true. Beka mostly wouldn’t because they’re old and he’s a little afraid of Victor.

“I think you’re going to need to learn to relax about flirting,” Beka says carefully. “If we trust each other, then a little flirting doesn’t hurt anybody.”

“It’s practically _cheating_ ,” Yura insists, being dramatic and Extra™.

“It’s really not,” Beka says firmly. “And the next time someone flirts with you, enjoy the ego stroke and don’t worry about it.”

“No one flirts with me,” Yura grumbles.

“That’s because you’re terrifying.” Beka nudges him with his shoulder and then holds the hotel door open for him.

“Ice Tiger!” Yura laughs and reaches for Beka’s hand.

They go up to Yura’s room and get his toothbrush and phone charger and the things he’ll need in the morning to go practice at the rink. Back down in Beka’s room, they give each other the erotic experience Beka had described back in Barcelona, complete with burlesque-quality striptease.

They’re taking a rest, sweat cooling on their skins, Beka’s head on Yura’s chest, when Yura asks a question.

“Is it like this every time?”

Beka lifts his head and cranes his neck around to make eye contact. “Is what like this?”

“Being with someone. Is it always so…?”

Intense? Incredible? Intimate?

“No,” Beka tells him. “In fact, it’s never like this. At least not for me.” He rolls over and props himself up on an elbow so he can look into Yura’s eyes, which are very green just now. Beka drapes his other arm possessively over Yura’s ribs, his arm lifting and lowering just slightly with Yura’s breath.

“Oh.” Yura considers this.

“Yeah,” Beka says. “This is big. For me, it’s big.”

“Oh.” Yura flushes pink at the idea of their relationship being outsized. Then he says, “I’m still going to kick your ass. I’m still going to win gold.”

“You’re going to try,” Beka counters. And then, “There’s no reason we both can’t be on the podium.”

“You can have silver,” Yura says, almost grudgingly.

“I’m a better skater now than I was in Barcelona.”

“You were robbed.” Yura is more upset about Beka’s fourth-place finish in Barcelona than Beka is.

“I won’t get robbed again.” Beka hopes this is true, both for himself and for the sake of whoever Yura perceives has cheated him out of a medal.

Yura shifts up onto his side and grins. “I’ve never slept with anyone before,” he says. “I hope you don’t snore.”

Beka scoffs, not dignifying this with a response. He moves up to put his head on a pillow and draws Yura close, encouraging him to lay his head on his shoulder.

“We haven’t known each other that long,” Yura says haltingly, “but I…”

“You what?”

“I’ve never liked anyone so much. I didn’t think…”

Beka waits for him to finish his thought, and he doesn’t, but Beka knows what he means.

“I’m not going to play it cool with you,” Beka tells him. “I don’t see any reason to, and I don’t think I can anyway.”

“No?” Yura obviously likes the sound of this.

“No. I know I have a reputation as some kind of stoic badass, but if you need a guy to act cool, that can’t be me. Not when it comes to you. I like you a lot and I’m going to let you know it. You’re getting the full boyfriend experience.”

“I’m special,” Yura says happily.

“VIP,” Beka says. “Full privileges.”

“I don’t really get along with most people,” Yura begins haltingly. “But I’ve always gotten along with you. You’re the coolest person I’ve ever met. You’re never stupid. You don’t piss me off.” He hesitates, then admits, “You make me happy.”

Beka laughs softly and kisses Yura’s head. “I’m happy too, zhanym.”

Yura says, “I don’t want to go back to St. Petersburg alone. I want to stay with you, or you come with me.”

Beka wants those same things. “Yeah, we’ll definitely have to figure something out.”

“I really want to visit you in Almaty.”

“You do?” Beka was under the impression that Yura considered Almaty a poky backwater, but maybe that isn’t true after all, or at least it doesn’t matter so much anymore.

“I want to meet your sister and your friends.”

“They all want to meet you too. My friends really want to take you to hang out at a club while I’m DJing.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. They basically want to go on a date with you. You and like five guys.”

Yura laughs, pleased by this idea.

“You say no one flirts with you. Well, if you come visit, Danya will flirt like crazy. He thinks you’re sexy.”

Yura laughs again. “Which pictures are you showing him?”

“The dick pics,” Beka assures him. “I show those to everyone.”

Yura laughs so hard he snorts and Beka pulls him close and they roll across the bed.

They stop talking for awhile. Beka breathes in Yura’s warm skin, the subtleties of his sweat and breath. They untangle themselves from the sheets as they touch, mouths and fingers so gentle and deliberate on hard athletic bodies used to punishing treatment. Yura’s voice is hushed, with a rawness in his throat from all the noise he’s made already today. His cries of pleasure now are rough and low, just between them, everything kept close to the skin. Beka is the only person who has ever heard Yura come, who has helped him do it, who is allowed so near.

Endless tenderness. As they kiss and touch and coil into deeper intimacy, Beka aches with yearning to be joined together, to somehow merge with Yura, to share everything, flesh and blood, body and soul. Beka has had sex with a lot of people, and he’s liked some of them very much, but it was never like this. For all his experience, what’s happening with Yura is completely new. Neither of them know what they’re doing.

They’re really young, Beka’s well aware of that, but that doesn’t mean their relationship can’t last. It doesn’t mean their connection isn’t deep or real.

They can do this. No games, no playing it cool, no pretending not to care. If they’re going to fall in love, then they should do that wholeheartedly and not worry about what anyone thinks. Beka is ready to entrust his vulnerable heart into Yura’s care. As for Beka, he’ll never hurt Yura, and he’ll never let Yura be hurt.

Tomorrow in practice, he’ll see Yura skate for the first time since Barcelona and will see what he’s up against. His feelings for Yura have made him a better skater, a more nuanced interpreter of the music. Has Yura seen a similar improvement? Or has their relationship been a distraction? Beka would never try to manipulate Yura into a poor performance, but if one occurs naturally, he will take advantage of that weakness because they are competitors as well as lovers. They both want gold.

“Let’s try hard to beat each other,” Beka says.

“What?” Yura is dazed, unfocused, his cock slippery in Beka’s hand.

“When we skate, it’ll be war, right?”

Yura laughs. “It better be.” He closes his hand around Beka’s, making sure Beka doesn’t let go of his cock. “If you _let_ me beat you for some stupid reason, I’ll fucking hate you. I want to beat you doing your best.”

“I promise to do my best.” Beka rubs his thumb across the head of Yura’s cock, pushing through the wet slit.

Yura throws a leg over Beka’s hip and shifts closer. “How about this? When I beat you, I get to fuck you in the ass.”

Beka blinks, bemused. “Um…okay? You could do that anyway, but—”

“No!” Yura shakes his head. “It’s war, right? That’s my prize for conquering you.”

Beka laughs. “Oh my god. Rape and pillage.”

“Ugh, not rape,” Yura says, shaking his head firmly to the negative. “I don’t want you to pretend you don’t like it or anything. That’s gross. Just…I can’t have it until I beat you. That’s all.”

“Sure. Okay. If it motivates you…” Beka has always taken turns with the men he’s been with, and won’t hesitate to do the same with Yura, but if Yura wants to consider it a prize, he’s welcome to do so.

“What do you want if you beat me?”

Beka thinks about it a moment and smiles. “If I win…I get to lie back and have you fuck me in the ass.”

Yura laughs, a single _ha!_ and punches his shoulder. “No, seriously.”

“What makes you think I’m not serious?” He’s laughing though.

Yura’s asshole is a little tender from the day’s vigorous use so they don’t fuck again, but they do suck each other off. Beka rims Yura and Yura puts his fingers in Beka’s ass. Yura chokes dramatically when Beka comes, and he’s embarrassed, but it’s only the second blow job he’s ever given and Beka encourages him to go easy on himself. It was a great blow job, and not-choking isn’t a sign of manliness or value as a person or anything. It’s more or less a sign of experience, which Beka will be happy to help Yura get.

They get cleaned up, brush their teeth, set alarms and get into bed.

They fit together so well.

The same angry tooth-and-claw Yura who picks ridiculous fights with harmless people is also this warm, silky, pliant creature who yawns like a kitten and seeks shelter in the curve of Beka’s body. Beka can love both Yuras, can like everything about him. While it would be better for Yura to be less confrontational, Beka doesn’t mind that his boyfriend is kind of a dick. He seems to be uniquely qualified to deal with Yura’s dickishness.

Yura might be an asshole, but he’s _Beka’s_ asshole.

Beka’s not ready to commit to being in love with Yura just yet, but he’ll admit he’s in love with Yura’s lithe, hard-muscled body and suede-soft skin. He loves the feeling of Yura straining and surging beneath his hands. He loves Yura’s cock, a perfect fit for his mouth. He’s in love with the smell and taste of him, the salt and musk of his breath and sweat and semen. As much as Beka loves music, as much as his soul soars on a guitar solo, the best thing he’s ever heard is the vulnerable rasp of Yura’s voice as he comes crying out Beka’s name.

Yura’s still the prettiest boy Beka has ever seen, just several years more mature, several years more manly. Beka is going to be careful to not use the word _pretty_ though; Yura is sensitive to suggestions that he is at all feminine or even androgynous. It is precisely these androgynous traits that make Yura so much sexier than other men, that make Beka want to fuck him endlessly, but Beka won’t argue the point. Yura can come to grips with his own beauty in his own time.

Yura’s voice is just a whisper. “What’s that word you call me? _Zhamyn?_ ”

“No, it’s _zhanym_.” Beka kisses Yura’s forehead.

“What does it mean?”

“It translates to _my soul_ , but don’t take it too literally. It can be a romantic word, but you can use it for other people you care about too. I call my sister _zhanym_.”

“Oh. Okay.” Yura is quiet a moment, then says, “What if I call you _mishka_?”

Beka smiles in the dark. His mother and sister call him _mishka_. _Bear cub_.

“Yeah, I’d like that.” Beka closes his eyes and pushes his nose in Yura’s hair, breathes in the scent of his scalp. He wants to be with Yura like this always, close in every way.

What’s happening between them feels big, too big to fit inside his skin, and he’s so happy it’s almost frightening. His mood is quietly ebullient, stealthily joyful, tough-guy giddy. He’s never fallen in love before, and it’s fucking exciting.

Yura’s hand touches his face in the dark and angles his head. “Goodnight, mishka.” He gives Beka a lush kiss flavored with toothpaste.

With Yura’s minty spit on his lips, Beka says, “Goodnight, zhanym.”

He’s so full of feeling he’s not sure he’ll be able to sleep.

Back in Barcelona, Yura had been the complete opposite of chill, throwing himself at Beka like a flaming fastball. Yura hasn’t backed down in the last three months, but he seems less out-of-control now, probably because Beka has little chill left himself.

Beka knows Yura likes him in part because he’s supposed to be a badass, and that’s mostly true, except when it comes to Yura. Beka’s friends think it’s fucking hysterical how he softens and melts when the topic is Yura. Beka was a lot cooler three months ago, but he’s been progressively wrecked by every text message sent, Skype call made and Instagram pic posted by Yura since then. It’s not Beka’s style to make noise about his feelings, but he’s having a lot of them.

But Yura likes him for more than badassery, motorcycles and DJ gigs. Yura likes that Beka listens. Beka thinks Yura wants a boyfriend who’s not afraid to show he likes him, who won’t pretend to care less just to seem more manly. Why should men not care about things? That’s not manly, it’s stunted. It’s pathetic.

Just as Beka’s reputation precedes him, Yura’s known for being a hothead, a salty little ball of rage, and Beka has seen him act that way (poor Kyle), but that’s not what Yura’s like with him. They’re different with each other, softer and more trusting.

There’s such a thing as having too much chill. Beka doesn’t think handsome, talented Yura with his healthy self-regard would appreciate having to put a lot of energy into getting the attention of an indifferent man. Instead, Yura will fall in love with someone who’s paying attention, someone who’s not very chill at all, at least when it comes to him.

Beka’s already in place.

Beka’s ready.

Ready to love, zero chill.

**Author's Note:**

> The clothes-borrowing was spurred by [this post by superspicy](http://superspicy.tumblr.com/post/161260049472/you-think-that-green-highlight-didnt-bothered-me) because obviously that is Beka's jacket.
> 
> (I love comments. Just saying... <3)


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